Dear Mr. Knightley (16 page)
Josh also seems put out with my worrying and early departures. He says I should just stay at his place, and I guess he’s right. We’ve been dating for a couple months now and it’s expected. I don’t know why I don’t agree, and I think he’s losing patience. Last night it almost came to a fight.
“Do you have to leave before even ordering dessert? You missed drinks out with Scott and Jessica last night, and it’s rude. I feel like a third wheel. What’s up with you?”
Ashley says I’m acting prudish. Debbie refuses to weigh in. There’s something very sensible and Midwestern about Debbie that I really appreciate. She’s like Jane Eyre; she doesn’t lose her way. She says I have good instincts and should trust them. I think that’s why she’s top in our class—she listens. No one
absorbs the most important points and then draws them out as well as she does. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’s brilliant. But doesn’t she know that I have no instincts? That it’s impossible for me to draw my own conclusions?
I shouldn’t canvass my friends on this, but I don’t know what’s normal. That’s what I can’t tell Debbie or anyone. None of them know I haven’t slept with a guy. I gather everyone has. My reticence seems strange, even to myself. And I love Josh. At least I think I do. He loves me. At least I think he does. He’s never said the words, but it’s in his look and actions. Goodness, I sound exactly like Marianne Dashwood. She felt the same about Willoughby, and look where it got her—the poor girl almost died. Thank goodness, Josh is an honorable Colonel Brandon and not a villainous Willoughby.
But I have to admit that, while he makes me feel very attractive and cherished, I also feel uncomfortable with some of his ideas. I suspect that’s my issue, not his, and that I really am “two steps behind reality.” I try to share my reality with him, but he doesn’t hear me. Our conversation while running this morning is a perfect example.
“You can’t be that naive, Sam. It’s the way the world works. Everyone is like that.”
“Not everyone.”
“You’ve got the brains and certainly the determination, but it takes more than that to cut it at Medill and certainly in the newspaper biz. You have to take the next guy out, even if it’s Debbie or another friend. They’d do it to you. Get out of your head and your books, Sam.”
I ran silently a few minutes. Is that really how I need to think? Is that what living “normal” looks and feels like?
“I probably do spend too much time in my books. They saved me, you know?” I wanted to share my life and let him know how little I understand these new arenas.
Ask about the real me. Can I trust you?
“Saved you from what? The mall?” He laughed.
“My childhood wasn’t like yours, Josh. I didn’t have a bunch of brothers playing football in the front yard.”
“Whatever, Sam.”
“And Debbie and the others are my friends. I’m not going to ‘take them out,’ as you say.”
“Listen, Sam, I get that you love to stand out by acting clueless, but don’t pretend it’s not an act and that you’re not as cutthroat as the rest of us.”
Love to stand out? Cutthroat? How could anyone think that’s me? I spend every moment of every day painfully working to fit in. I work to
not
stand out in any way, to
not
get noticed. At least not in a negative way—I’d love it if my classmates and Johnson thought I occasionally brought something good to the table.
Of course, I didn’t say all that. I never do. But I did subtly pick up the pace. Josh could barely breathe by the end—not that he’d ever admit it. And I felt a little better. Maybe I am cutthroat, Mr. Knightley. I wanted a little of my own back, and I purposefully ran Josh into the ground to get it. And unlike that first race with Kyle, this time I felt no regret.
We had plans to spend the day together, but they evaporated. Josh suddenly had a meeting, on a Saturday, and I needed to study.
Isn’t your boyfriend supposed to want the real you? I mean I know I’ve hidden stuff, most everything, I grant, but
I’ve tried to let truth slip out too. And today I was ready for honesty.
Sincerely,
Sam
P.S. Mr. Knightley, thanks for this—these letters. At first I questioned them, even though I found them oddly easy. And now I trust our one-sided, soul-purging relationship. I depend on it. It’s got to be more therapeutic than all those psychologists people pay in the movies. It’s certainly more helpful than all that chatting I had to do with Dr. Wieland at Grace House. So again, thank you.
Oh . . .
I just got a text from Alex Powell:
Mom M gave me your number. Saw
Hamlet
off Broadway. Thought Much Of You. How’s school? A. Powell
I wrote back: LOL. Heard
Three Days Found
is coming out as a movie. Congrats. Will see it opening night.
Alex: It’s fun. Flying to LA to consult storyboard and set. Am getting so Hollywood.
Me: Careful. Next you’ll put your picture on your books.
Alex: Never! Thanks for staying @ Muirs over turkey day. They get lonely.
Me: Me too. Loved it. Can see why they’re your 2nd parents.
Alex: No fear. I share well. Gotta go.
I promptly deleted his number. You might call me ridiculous, but it was necessary. What if I couldn’t help myself and started texting, pestering, stalking? It wouldn’t be my fault! I’m already following him on Twitter. He really shouldn’t guard his privacy so much. Other than the upcoming movie, very little leaks out. And I refuse to pepper the Muirs. But I did find an interview with Conan on YouTube. Now do you understand why I got rid of his number?
Dear Mr. Knightley,
It’s Christmas Eve and all I can do is sit here and cry. Why is it so hard? I need to quit. Everyone knows I can’t cut it. Johnson will kick me out in January anyway. I should go—on my own terms—just like he advised.
The nightmares are back full-force and I can’t sleep. They’ve been around for months, but the past few nights they’ve been relentless. I haven’t slept a wink in three days. I can’t look in the mirror. The circles under my eyes tell of too little sleep and too much pain. I can’t talk to my friends. Most have gone home, and Josh is in Cincinnati for Christmas. I don’t want to talk to him anyway.
Johnson yelled at me the last day before break—so much for honesty. He asked me to stay after class and then started yelling. He’d probably say he talked loudly, but it felt like yelling.
“Moore, what are you doing? You picked a fine subject, one with meat, bones, and questions; yet you breezed through it. That production is provoking discussions, debate. You addressed none of it. Stop wasting my time.”
He’d printed out my
Merchant
review—I’m sure just to emphasize his point with all the red slashes. Hard copy is much more devastating.
“I thought it was better, Dr. Johnson. I put myself in there.”
“If that’s the best you’ve got, don’t bother with the January feature. Stop by the office and withdraw on your way out the door.”
“Are you serious? You’re kicking me out?”
“I’m letting you go on your own terms. Come January, I won’t give you that privilege.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “Look, Moore, a newspaper will assign you subjects; I’m letting you pick them. Already that’s a leg up. If you can’t handle subjects you select, how do you expect to handle the rigors of daily assignments and deadlines?”
“I thought I could handle this. I know a lot about literature. I reread the play and saw the production for this review. It’s thorough.”
“I never said it wasn’t thorough. It’s too thorough. It’s a review, Moore, not a dissertation.”
I slumped in my chair.
He leaned forward. “Find a topic in which you can express your voice, your own voice, Moore. I get a new take on you with each exercise, and each is more distant and shadowed than the one before. What interests you? What gets your heart beating? Tell me, where do you find yourself?”
“This is it. This is what I know best.” I shook my review.
“That’s a shame. There’s no more of your voice in that than was in your article on water rights. I don’t know what else to do with you.”
Right then I recognized what Professor Muir was referring to that night. Dr. Johnson
is
a good man. He’s tough, but he wanted to help me. He was ready to do all he could to make success possible, but I didn’t know what to say. Finally he got up and withdrew behind his desk. I was dismissed.
I said with such bravado that Dr. Johnson would have to kick me out—and I think he did. He told me to go on my own terms. I should’ve taken his advice and dropped out as I exited
his office—because he’s right, there’s nothing more to be done with me. I’ve been working for five days on the January feature in an attempt to find something powerful and compelling in me, and I’ve come up empty.
If I could just sleep, maybe I’d think more clearly and write better. But I can’t. I go downtown to join Josh and to have fun for a few hours in the hope that I’ll forget all this. Then I come home, crawl into bed, and get pounded every night by a different horror. I awoke last night unable to move—finally I convinced myself that my arms and legs still worked and I was safe. And then today . . . It was a nightmare and I was fully awake.
I took a break this afternoon and walked into town to do some Christmas shopping for the Conley kids. They’re so sweet and constantly leave pictures and cookies at my door. Anyway, as I crossed Clark Street I ran into Sienna, one of Ashley’s English lit friends. I don’t like her, but I accepted her invitation to Starbucks to warm up.
As we walked the block, a teenager with dirty-blond hair and the most haunted gray eyes asked us for money. I recognized the look; I’d seen it in the mirrors of a dozen bus stops and store windows. And like me once upon a time, she had no coat. In December.
Sienna turned to me and said in a mock whisper, “There are places for these people. We shouldn’t have to see them.” She sounded like Ebenezer Scrooge defending workhouses and prisons.
“Those places are hard to get into,” I said. “This may be the best she can do.”
I pushed some bills into the girl’s hand, but Sienna never
paused. She threw back such a condescending sneer, I stopped again. If she were literate enough to have known the line, I swear she would have said, “If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”
Instead she tossed her red hair and called in her southern snobby twang, “Don’t you have a marvelous social conscience? Why don’t you invite her for coffee with us?”
She tapped her Prada-booted foot. “You’ve given her money, now let’s go. It’s cold out here.” Then she flounced, yes, flounced, away.
I’m so embarrassed that I noticed her boots and even more humiliated to admit that I followed her. I don’t even remember what I said in Starbucks. I guzzled my latté, mumbled some excuse, and ran out as my life played before my eyes.
What do you know about me, Mr. Knightley? Really know? No matter what Father John told you or sent you, you can’t know it all. No one does. I alone carry it each and every day. And no matter how many characters I hide behind, how much work I bury myself beneath, my past still pushes me every day and haunts me every night.
Before the police took me to Grace House, I spent two months living on the streets. I spent most nights sleeping under Wacker Drive, hiding in sewage tunnels from men and gangs, crouching in dark doorways, eating from garbage cans and handouts, and constantly moving. Walking, shifting, drifting—anything to keep warm, stay safe, and avoid the cops. I remember an old woman gave me a hat from her grocery cart to cover my hair. She said I’d be safer as a boy. I never let my imagination go there.
I didn’t have energy to think past the simple actions
for survival. I didn’t know where to go or whom to trust. I couldn’t risk a shelter—it would lead to a state home, a juvenile detention center, or my social worker, Mr. Petrusky. And he had already failed me.
I should go back farther . . .
I’m about six in my earliest memory. It took me five years to remember that day, and now it won’t leave. In my mind, I see myself look up as my father runs across a dim room. I feel weightless, soaring through the air until I hit the wall. Then I see my father follow me. I feel his steps shake the floor as I try to get small and still. That’s the start of many dreams.
In reality, my father hoisted me up to a mirror and gripped my neck so I could watch myself choke. My legs danced like a rag doll. I watched them as I tried to shut out the gasping, gargling noises. I also watched his hands. They grew red as the sounds grew louder. They were horrible sounds and I didn’t know until much later that they came from me. I don’t know why he stopped; maybe he thought he’d killed me. I only remember being carried away as the police grilled my mom. She didn’t speak or look up. She sat at the kitchen table, tracing a crack with her finger.
I didn’t speak of this. In fact, I said nothing for over a year. After a stint in the hospital, I was fostered out to the Chapmans. Mrs. Chapman takes on the glow of an angel in my memories. I can’t recall her features, but I spent hours in her lap listening to her read. She smelled sweet like gardenias, and her voice was deep and cheerful. I felt so safe in their care. Of course, I didn’t stay long. Mr. Chapman got a job in Wisconsin, and I couldn’t cross state lines. That’s when I learned what a commodity my life was.
